Ballad for Eurydice
by irishais
Summary: When had he forgotten how to feel? He had to be dead. He couldn't carry all that weight and feel nothing without being dead. COMPLETE.
1. Diggin'

_A/N: This story's title comes from the Greek myth of Orpheus and his quest to regain his wife, Eurydice, from Hades and Persephone's Underworld. He is allowed to rescue Eurydice, on the condition that he must not look back at her until they reach the mortal plane. However, he breaks this condition and Eurydice is lost from him forever. I found it to be a fitting metaphor for Spike and his longing for Julia. This story takes place post- _Cowboy Bebop: The Movie_/post-series, following the question of what if Spike had survived? How would he exist?  
_

_**Ballad for Eurydice**_

_-irishais-_

**1. Diggin'**

It was the only thing keeping him going these days, he realized, staring at the red and white cellophane package in front of him. Another day, another smoke. Another nail in the proverbial coffin. It was strange, though. Whenever he made a discovery like that, Julia usually wandered into his mind, all smoke and black leather and blonde curls.

She wasn't there. She hadn't been in his thoughts, even his idle daydreams, for a while now, and he wondered when she had first disappeared.

He couldn't remember. The thought annoyed him more than he thought it would, and he tapped a finger against the crinkled cellophane package. Did he miss her still? Or had he finally let go, let her slip back into oblivion?

He tried to think of Faye.

Nothing. He didn't even miss the rest of them, Jet and Ed and Ein...Hell, he hadn't even bothered to get in touch with them, except to call when he remembered (which wasn't often) and let them know he was still alive. Still had too much to think about. He had to _think_. That had been his excuse when he had asked them to drop him back off at Mars a month or two ago. _Thinking_.

More like self-mutilation. Spike honestly had never thought it possible to ingest as much alcohol as he had in the past few weeks and still be functioning. He had sucked down cigarette after cigarette, in an effort to feel something inside, to hope to sear flesh, to feel pain.

He was numb.

He was afraid he was dead.

Slowly, he brought _her _to the front of his thoughts, and tried to envision her, bright and happy and full of life despite her darkest secrets that only he had known.

Why couldn't he _feel_ anything? It wasn't like he had known her or anything. She was just some girl, someone who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

With the wrong man.

Spike picked up the short, dented glass and stared at the inch or so of amber liquid coating a couple of half-melted ice cubes. He swirled it around, offered a toast to everyone and no one, and tossed back the remainder of his drink. He waited for the acidic burn of the alcohol searing his throat.

It didn't come.

_Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong man._

Hell, maybe she had been the wrong woman.

Spike stared at the package of cigarettes and thought of blonde bombshells and dark-haired vixens and wondered how he had become trapped in memories. Trapped in memories and dreams and still couldn't feel anything. He'd never had much luck with women, anyway, so maybe it was a good thing.

It was definitely time for another drink.

Maybe Lady Luck had finally run out on him, and left him with nothing but goddamn memories of better times.

..._Like a devilish angel, or maybe an angelic devil_...

He had thought he had seen Julia that night, in the pouring rain.

A ghost between the graves, and he had lost _her_ because his brain decided to play tricks on him. Hard luck woman, indeed. Julia had always been difficult to love, but he had loved her anyway, not knowing why or how or for how long he could love her, but knowing he _had_ to love her. Had to have her, hold her, keep her for himself forever. Had to give up on the living to keep chasing the dead.

Had lost her to a stray bullet, no bigger than the tip of his finger.

He'd gone to Faye, but found little solace there. It wasn't the first time, and he wondered why he bothered. Maybe just for human contact, to see if he was still normal, still mostly whole. She loved him, or at least thought she did. Spike thought that maybe that was when he had stopped being able to feel properly. He scratched at the scar on his stomach absently as he tossed back another drink--maybe subliminally he was trying to stir up some sort of feeling, some emotion.

He'd settle for a painful memory. He had his memories, but it was like watching a movie in grainy black and white, like watching someone else's life. There was nothing there. No feelings. No ghosts of whispers of a woman's voice. No imagined touch.

Nothing.

_I've gotta be dead_, Spike thought. _Can't carry that weight and feel nothing. Gotta be dead. _

He asked the bartender for another refill.

_Gotta be dead_.


	2. Piano BLACK

_AN: For those of you unfamiliar with the works of William Shakespeare, Ophelia is the name of the girl in _Hamlet _that goes utterly mad and ultimately drowns herself after Hamlet kills her father, denies loving her, and tells her, "Get thee to a nunnery!" Nunnery in this context means "brothel," and Shakespeare's Ophelia, as well as the tragedy of the Prince of Denmark, has a heavy influence in my Ophelia's characterization. _

_**Ballad for Eurydice**_

_-irishais-_

**2. Piano BLACK**

He found her blocking the door to a hole-in-the-wall bar that he usually frequented, and bought her a drink. Not because he cared, but because she'd asked him to, and what the hell, no one liked to drink alone if they didn't have to. Her name was Ophelia--she had cracked several dry and educated jokes about drowning in the rain when he quirked an eyebrow at her name. She didn't care that he didn't care--her whole purpose was to try to drum up business, or at least get a free drink out of her efforts. She made him talk, even pretended to listen when he agreed that it was woman troubles that had resulted in his seeking of solace.

Ah, Ophelia. Spike lit up another cigarette and was about to offer her one when he realized the cellophane package was finally empty. "Shit," he muttered and crumpled the box in disgust. He was broke as it was, pissing his money away on drinks and bad food and more smokes. Anything to help him forget, but it was hard to forget when he had jabbing stomach pains and a myriad of drugs that weren't supposed to be mixed with anything except water.

Morphine mixed well with a shot of vodka--Spike was amazed his heart hadn't stopped yet. He supposed one's body could adjust to almost anything. _Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger_.

He was fairly certain that whoever said that had never had their heart utterly obliterated. It didn't kill him, but it might as well have. He didn't feel stronger--he just felt empty.

"So, you wanna go fool around?"

He'd been expecting it. Anticipating it. Probably the subconscious reason he bought her the damn drink, to see if a slip of a girl with brown eyes that had seen too much to still consider her a girl would be able to stir something within him. He set the bottle back down on the bar.

_I was killed by a woman once_.

* * *

Smoke wafted across his eyes, tickling his skin.

He woke.

Ophelia sat on the edge of the bed, a cigarette between her fingers. "I'd just take your wallet, but I've got a feeling you'd know where to find me," she said, another wisp of smoke drifting out from between her unpainted lips.

"Wha--oh." He sat up, looking for his pants. She dangled the blue trousers in his face, snatched up from the floor. "How much?"

Ophelia shrugged, and in the dim light of the tiny bedside lamp, Spike could see the fine lines around her eyes. "Whatever it was worth to you."

_Was it worth anything_?

He passed her some woolongs, hoping that the brush of her hand against his would cause some sort of reaction.

"See you around." She gave him a faint kiss on the cheek and walked out of the seedy room, and out of his life. Spike watched the door long after it had shut, empty billfold dangling from his fingers, wanting to drown in the scent she left behind, her smokes and _her..._

_Maybe._

The scene was set--for what, he didn't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Maybe tragedy.

Spike reached for cigarettes that weren't there.

He'd seen enough tragedy.

He reached for the rest of his clothes.


	3. Mushroom Hunting

_A/N: The style for this chapter was an experiment in hallucinogenic illusions--inspiration drawn from late-night thoughts, broken records, skipped CDs, stuck in traffic. Amazing how many thoughts we can sum up in brief sentences, half-thoughts, really. Just one or two words can convey everything, whole stories, whole lives. Our imaginations take the unusual and run with it. Let them.  
_

_**Ballad for Eurydice**_

_-irishais-_

**3. Mushroom Hunting**

"Well."

"Yeah, I know."

Pause. _Long pause. _

"Gotta go?"

"Where to?"

A dry laugh. Bitter.

It was _something_, and something was always damn better than nothing at all. It echoed off dingy walls and into the speaker of the video phone.

"Come back."

"I can't."

That wasn't what she wanted to hear.

"...Still thinking?" The word was said as if it were something foul. To her, it probably was.

"I guess."

"Well, why don't you call back when you've got something to say?" The call disconnected.

_Shit_.

Frustration knotted itself down his spine. He'd called. He'd made the attempt to do _something_. He had just wanted to let them know he was still alive, no matter how difficult it had been to bring himself to call. At least he was starting to feel, albeit only difficulty, frustration, loneliness.

No, scratch that.

Not _lonely_. He wanted to be alone, was why he'd come here in the first place. Spike fell back on his couch and stared at a ceiling that threatened to collapse if he looked at it crosswise. "Shit, shit, _shit_." He reached for his cigarettes, hand blindly searching the floor for the box. Success.

He lit up and wondered if the ceiling would cave if he blew a big enough smoke ring.

Did he miss them?

_Not really._

Yeah, he did.

_No, you don't._

His coffin nail was growing short quickly as he tried to figure out if he was lying or not. He didn't know. Hell, he didn't know anything, it seemed like, at least that was what Faye always told him.

What everyone had always told him. Reckless, just looking for a place to die.

_Julia_.

The voice of a ghost tugged at the farthest reaches of his hearing. He tried to remember what she smelled like...leather? Lace? Musky scotch, well aged...smoky.

_Little boy looking for a man in the moon_.

Sucker for a hard luck woman, sucker for a lost cause.

"I need a drink."

* * *

Damn neon did nothing to chase away the ghosts. As a matter of fact, the intimate conversation he was having with Jack and friends wasn't doing too much, either.

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice that attempted to be seductive whispered into his ears.

He didn't respond. Took a sip.

"Whatsamatta, lover boy?" Long, skinny arms wrapping themselves around him. Familiar arms.

Spike found that he didn't have to try terribly hard to ignore her, and motioned over the bartender. "Leave the bottle."

"Drunk."

"No, just forgetting again."

Ophelia disentangled herself from him and plopped down onto the worn stool next to him. "Lost cause," she responded. "How've you been?" she asked, taking a generous swig from the bottle. He plucked it from her fingers and poured himself another glass. "That good, huh?" She grabbed the container from him as he went for another glass. "Easy, tiger. Might as well just give it to you intravenously if you're that desperate."

"Probably help me faster, anyway."

"What, to forget or to get you into a grave?"

He shook his head.

"I can help you forget."

"Not in the mood."

Ophelia laughed. "Well, that _is_ a shame, but I actually wasn't referring to sex. For once." She got hold of his arm and traced out the long vein down his arm. He raised an eyebrow. "Trust me," she whispered, and took him out the back door.

_Trust you?_

_

* * *

_

The world felt like it had been turned on its head. He was fairly certain his brain had exploded--either that or his head had become home to a very small, very violent drum corps. Everything was ghost-like in his vision, and he wondered why death was so damn _painful_.

_She_ was waiting for him, holding out her hands like some strange angel.

"Let's go, loverboy!"

_Mushroom hunting!_

He grabbed her hands.

_gotta knock a little harder gotta knock a little harder gotta get someone to open the lock there's a door he can't get through let him in let him in no matter how hard he knocked no one was answering he wanted to know why he couldn't get in was he dead? had to be dead they'd let him in if he was alive wouldn't they? _

_gotta knock a little harder gotta break down the door._

_

* * *

_

He woke to music.

_Angel chorus_.

No, a familiar? voice, not singing but saying _something_...Spike pried his eyes open and found wide violet eyes looking down at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too." A flare of a lighter and smoke clouded his vision. "Feeling better?"

He tried to move and found that moving was a little too much like work. "Is that a trick question?"

She laughed, a throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. "It depends on what you felt like before, I guess." Uncrossing her long, long legs, Faye Valentine looked like she belonged painted on the nose of an ancient aircraft. She tapped her cigarette against an ashtray that Spike couldn't see. "Nice place you got here." Sarcasm abounded.

Spike grunted.

"You really _love_ slumming, don't you?" Faye continued, her eyes everywhere except on him. "Got a call from an...Ophelia, I think was her name. Looked like a hooker." She pursed red lips around the slim white smoke. "Are you doing drugs?"

Straightforward.

Blatant.

Threw him for a loop. He blinked. She blew a cloud of smoke angrily.

"I didn't expect you to become a junkie," said Faye, and walked out of his life for a second time.

_Addict?_

_

* * *

_


	4. Cosmic Dare

_**Ballad for Eurydice**_

_irishais_

**4. Cosmic Dare**

Ophelia refused to give him answers to anything. "It was necessary" was the only answer that Spike could pry out of her, and he wanted to cry bullshit. He didn't want them back in his life, at least not like this. It was an unwanted invasion.

He wanted to get them back on his own terms.

Mars was too damn crowded, Spike decided. Was good enough for him for a while, when he could hide and no one knew where he was. Now that Faye had found him, it was too friggin' small for him. Whole damn galaxy out there and he had to come to Mars, stay in some shithole apartment and attempt to escape his demons by trapping them in bottle after bottle.

She wouldn't even tell him what she gave him.

Was more than likely trying to kill him, since at this rate it seemed like everyone had gotten wind of some rumor that he _wanted_ to be dead. He still hurt from whatever she had stuck in his arm, hurt so bad he had actually taken pills with _water_ and avoided the bars like the plague. Locked himself in his apartment and had spent most of the three days after Faye had left hunched over his toilet. Ophelia had shown up on the third day, slipping into his place like smoke--here one minute, gone the next. She'd left a note. _"Forget yet?_"

Wasn't so much that he'd _forgotten_, he just couldn't remember _what happened_.

_Julia_. Hadn't forgotten her yet, and she had been making her presence more and more known over the past few days. Spike blamed Faye for triggering _her_, his own personal Eurydice, the woman he'd lost after going so far to save her.

His fallen angel, his Juliet, his nightmare and his dream all at once.

The angel-devil that had led him on this ghost hunt.

_This is Hell_.

* * *

Was it really slumming, he mused, to sup with demons and wayward spirits?

She didn't understand. He didn't get her. Hell, he didn't understand _women,_ period.

He was starting to think that this debate over women was a regular occurrence in his life.

Spike took another bite of his cold burger. Did he really care? At all?

_No._

Maybe.

_You don't give a damn._

Maybe not.

_Space cowboy, lonely in the stars_.

How the hell had he gotten here?

_Hard luck women. _That was all of it. Women. Faye. Julia. Ophelia. Women. Tragedy and despair in beautiful bodies. Insanity and desire, lunacy and lust. Women. He lit a cigarette.

* * *

He found Ophelia on the steps of a church.

"Do you seek salvation, Spike?" she asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke in his face. "Or do you want damnation?"  
He shrugged. "It's all the same to me."

Ophelia patted the cold concrete step. "Take a load off."

It was weird, sitting on the stoop of an empty church on Mars with a prostitute.

Damnation or salvation?

Spike's lighter flared. "What a pair," he commented quietly. Ophelia threw her head back and laughed loudly and freely. "You're nuts," he added.

"Yeah, well. You spend your free time hanging out with hookers, so I wouldn't really be talking." She stubbed out her cigarette on the stoop and stood, pulling her thin sweater around her. "No sense in wasting a perfectly good night just sitting," she added.

"Not in the mood."

He thought she pouted. It was hard to tell in the dim light. Didn't matter. He got to his feet, knees cracking and making him feel like he was a hundred years old.

_Too old to live, too young to die._

"C'mon." Ophelia strode off toward the cemetery. "Let's go visit friends."

_Friends_?

He felt the first few drops of cool rain.

He didn't know why he followed her, only that he did and it all went to hell.

* * *

**Flash.**

_Men in dark coats. Knew they were bad news. Knew something was off about them, never seen 'em, but Ophelia knew them. So it seemed, anyway. Told her to give them money, lots of money. _

**Flash.**

_Screaming, yelling, tripping over stones that jutted like bad teeth. Cursing. _

**Flash**

_"Spike!"_

**Flash**

_Reaching for a gun that wasn't there. Slow. Too slow._

**Flash.**

_A shot. No more screams. They ran. He moved in slow motion, didn't know how he'd catch her before she fell. _

"...of a _bitch_..." Red bubbles on her lips. He pulled her up into his arms and knew that it was over. Big brown eyes closing slowly. "Always knew I'd...drown."

Numb.

_Gotta be dead._

_Can't carry all this weight and feel nothing. _

_Gotta be dead._


	5. Goodnight Julia

_**Ballad for Eurydice**_

_irishais_

**5. Goodnight Julia**

He sat in the dim and smoky bar, surrounded by his ghosts.

_A man can't carry that much weight and not feel a thing. _

He downed more scotch, the good stuff. He wasn't sure he could afford it.

Didn't matter.

He polished off the glass and swirled the ice cubes around, inhaling the shadow of a scent.

_Like a devilish angel, or an angelic devil..._

Maybe he felt something, just a little bit.

_Goodnight, Julia._

Maybe not.

Spike lit another cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. He saw his ghosts reflected in the grey cloud, and signaled the bartender.

_I was killed by a woman once._

..._See you, space cowboy..._

_

* * *

_

_A/N: "Memories are nice, but that's all they are." --Rikku, Final Fantasy X. _

_Thank you for reading. _


End file.
